“There’d be plenty of work for her in Russia just now,” Cross observed.

“No person of noble birth,” Julian reminded him, “has the slightest chance of working effectively in Russia to-day.  Besides, Miss Abbeway is half English.  Failing Russia, she would naturally select this as the country in which she could do most good.”

Some retort seemed to fade away upon the other’s lips.  His shaggy eyebrows were drawn a little closer together as he glanced towards the door.  Julian followed the direction of his gaze.  Catherine had entered and was looking around as though in search of some one.

Catherine was more heavily veiled than usual.  Her dress and hat were of sombre black, and her manner nervous and disturbed.  She came slowly to-wards their end of the table, although she was obviously in search of some one else.

“Do you happen to know where Mr. Fenn is?” she enquired.

Julian raised his eyebrows.

“Fenn was here a few minutes ago,” he replied, “but he left us abruptly.  I fancy that he rather disapproved of our conversation.”

“He has gone to his room perhaps,” she said.  “I will go upstairs.”

She turned away.  Julian, however, followed her to the door.

“Shall I see you again before you leave?” he asked.

“Of course—­if you wish to.”

There was a moment’s perceptible pause.

“Won’t you come upstairs with me to Mr. Fenn’s room?” she continued.

“Not if your business is in any way private.”

She began to ascend the stairs.

“It isn’t private,” she said, “but I particularly want Mr. Fenn to tell me something, and as you know, he is peculiar.  Perhaps, if you don’t mind, it would be better if you waited for me downstairs.”

Julian’s response was a little vague.  She left him, however, without appearing to notice his reluctance and knocked at the door of Fenn’s room.  She found him seated behind a desk, dictating some letters to a stenographer, whom he waved away at her entrance.

“Delighted to see you, Miss Abbeway,” he declared impressively, “delighted!  Come and sit down, please, and talk to me.  We have had a tremendous morning.  Even though the machine is all ready to start, it needs a watchful hand all the time.”

She sank into the chair from which he had swept a pile of papers and raised her veil.

“Mr. Fenn,” she confessed.  “I came to you because I have been very worried.”

He withdrew a little into himself.  His eyes narrowed.  His manner became more cautious.

“Worried?” he repeated.  “Well?”

“I want to ask you this:  have you heard anything from Freistner during the last day or two?”

Fenn’s face was immovable.  He still showed no signs of discomposure—­his voice only was not altogether natural.

“Last day or two?” he repeated reflectively.  “No, I can’t say that I have, Miss Abbeway.  I needn’t remind you that we don’t risk communications except when they are necessary.”